


A Loudspeaker With Teeth

by ckret2



Series: RadioSnake Discord - Spicy Showdown Week [2]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alastor singing mid-BJ!, Blood, Blow Jobs With Teeth, Cannibalism, Character Study, Come Swallowing, Double Oral Penetration, Eating, Established Relationship, M/M, Mild Gore, Mouth Kink, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Singing, also featuring: arguments about cotton candy!, it's like 2/3rds leadup 1/3 porn., tossing a dude out of a public restroom without letting him pull his pants up!, trashing Vox's car!, what's the tag for 'the objective is porn but there's twice as much flirting and banter first'?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:28:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24051367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ckret2/pseuds/ckret2
Summary: The smile, the singing, the fangs, the broadcasting, the cannibalism—despite how long Sir Pentious had been romantically involved with Alastor, it was only very gradually dawning on him that everything that made AlastorAlastorseemed to be focused on (orinside) his mouth.Consequently, nowSir Pentiouswas focused on Alastor's mouth.He was extremely focused on Alastor's mouth.He might have been a little bit obsessed with Alastor's mouth.
Relationships: Alastor/Sir Pentious (Hazbin Hotel)
Series: RadioSnake Discord - Spicy Showdown Week [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1732291
Comments: 7
Kudos: 120





	A Loudspeaker With Teeth

**Author's Note:**

> I'm in a Radiosnake discord that's having a NSFW event this week called [Spicy Showdown](https://hanekdraws.tumblr.com/post/616864101916983296/were-having-our-first-event-on-the-radiosnake), which includes a prompt each day. Yesterday was Day 2: "Teeth".
> 
> I got overambitious and went "what if I write about EVERY PART OF ALASTOR'S PERSONALITY that's encapsulated in his mouth???" and that's why this is 7700 words and a day late.
> 
> I haven't edited this yet because it's 7700 words and a day late. Beware typos.

"I don't understand what all the fuss about fair food is," Alastor said. His disapproving gaze swept across the food trucks and stands haphazardly surrounding the perimeter of the aluminum-roofed pavilion where they'd claimed a table. "It seems to have two things in common: it's fried, and it's terrible."

Sir Pentious looked up from his plate to give Alastor a disbelieving look. " _Terrible?_ " He gestured at the food stands with his fork. "Over the past four hours you've probably gotten something from half the booths here."

"Which is why I'm qualified to say the food's terrible." It wasn't stopping Alastor from sinking his teeth into a turkey leg.

Sir Pentious shrugged and dug back into his cotton candy. "I think it's... Well, it's not going to match the food you'll find in a _classier_ restaurant, but it's not that bad."

Dismissively, Alastor said, "You're not qualified to judge it."

Sir Pentious bristled. "And why not?"

"Because you," said Alastor, "are twirling cotton candy on your fork like spaghetti."

"It's supposed to be eaten like that!" Sir Pentious said indignantly. "Just because you've only ever seen it on a stick doesn't mean it's _supposed_ to be eaten that way. That's just the portable, _circus_ version of it."

"And you've seen it eaten other ways," Alastor said, eyebrows arched disbelievingly.

"I _have_."

"With a fork."

" _With_ a fork."

"Where?"

"At a steakhouse," Sir Pentious said. "A _classy_ steakhouse."

Alastor laughed out loud. "What kind of a steakhouse has cotton candy?!"

"The kind where you can get a fifty dollar steak, so I should think they know what they're doing."

Sir Pentious was pretty sure he could see a gear in Alastor's head breaking as he tried to process that concept. Sir Pentious triumphantly stuck another forkful of cotton candy in his mouth.

After a moment of dead air, Alastor asked in hushed awe, "Fifty _dollars?_ "

It belatedly occurred to Sir Pentious that Alastor—whom he'd just watched "pay" for his snacks all morning with nothing but a wink and a veiled threat—was probably still thinking in terms of Great Depression dollars. What would something worth $50 in 1930 be worth today—well over $500, wouldn't it?

Sir Pentious decided not to explain. "Fifty dollars," he confirmed.

Alastor stared at him in wonder. "And they serve _cotton candy_ there?"

"Like an after-dinner mint."

"Huh." Alastor bit off another strip of his turkey leg as he processed that. "Well. Cotton candy has certainly moved up in the world." He gestured with the leg toward Sir Pentious's plate. "I still can't imagine it's easy to eat with a fork, though."

"It's _perfectly_ easy, thank you!"

"That's what you said about the nachos an hour ago."

"Ye—W—I hadn't figured out the trick yet, that's all! You've got to wait for the crisps to get soggy before you stick the fork in them, _that_ keeps them all from breaking into pieces."

"Hey, what time is it?" Without asking for permission, Alastor leaned over the table, stuck his hand into Sir Pentious's jacket, and fished around until he got Sir Pentious's pocket watch out of his breast pocket.

" _Hey!_ " Sir Pentious leaned halfway across the table to keep the watch chain from snapping, holding his jacket shut protectively. He hissed, " _Ask_ first! We're in public, you know."

"How do you get this thingamajig..." Alastor tapped around the frame of the pocket watch until the touch screen lit up. "Ah!" He glanced at the time, then haphazardly stuffed the pocket watch back in Sir Pentious's jacket. "Did we still want to see the 'execution through the ages' show?"

"Oh—yes, of course!"

It was the most entertaining part of the fair, as far as Sir Pentious was concerned: they cleared out the small dirt-floored arena where they usually put on their hellhound pedigree shows or whatever, and instead demonstrated a dozen different execution techniques on a dozen scared witless prisoners who'd been kidnapped for the express purpose of the show. He sometimes thought that the show was the only reason he ever bothered coming to the fair—one of the only downsides to living in Hell, he thought, was that when everyone was already dead you never had a good public execution—and he'd managed to drag Alastor along partially on the promise of the show. Alastor had mentioned once that he'd always wanted to see an electric chair in action.

"Next show's in ten minutes," Alastor said. "If we miss it, we won't be able to go again until four."

"Oh!" He hadn't realized it was getting so late. Hard to keep track of time whenever he had a chance to just talk with Alastor. "By all means, then." He slid off his chair, scooped up his plate and fork, and hurried to swallow down the last of his cotton candy as they headed toward one of the few exits from the pavilion between the many food carts.

Alastor was finishing off his meal just as quickly, ripping into what remained of his turkey leg. As Sir Pentious looked at Alastor, for a moment, Alastor's face seemed to change to something deadlier; and time seemed to slow down; and Sir Pentious's entire attention was drawn to the way Alastor's sharp, sharp teeth tore through the meat, how they scraped every scrap effortlessly from the white bone, how his tongue wrapped around the bits of flayed flesh and pulled them into his mouth; and for a moment, Sir Pentious was keenly aware of how easy it would be for Alastor to seize him by the wrist, sink his fangs into his forearm, strip him into the bone, and lap up his blood.

Sir Pentious almost walked into a trash can. Alastor's invisible audience laughed at him.

"Shut up," Sir Pentious grumbled. "You're being distracting."

"Am I?" Alastor tossed the bone into the trash. Not a fleck of meat was left on it.

Sir Pentious dropped his plate and fork into the trash and hurried to slither alongside Alastor. Casually, he said, "Someday, I ought to take you to that place with the fifty dollar steaks."

Alastor's face lit up. "Oh, would you?" His grin stretched wider, exposing more of his fangs; and Sir Pentious tried not to think of him stripping meat from bones.

###

Eating with Alastor always came with the risk that Sir Pentious would find himself suddenly, excessively, lasciviously fascinated by the way his teeth cut and tore. Especially when he had meat. It would forever baffle Sir Pentious why the hell Hell had decided Alastor deserved a deer's features when he had the ravenous carnivorous feeding habits of a wolf.

But it wasn't always when Alastor ate. Sometimes it was when he spoke. Sometimes it was when he laughed. Sometimes it was simply when the light hit his smiling face just right.

Always, Sir Pentious's attention wandered back to Alastor's mouth.

Which was strange, because mouths weren't his _thing_.

Sure, he had a reasonably healthy appreciation for a pretty mouth; but no more than the average man did, he thought. Generally, if he noticed someone's body, the features that caught his attention weren't mouths but, oh... Eyes. Hair. Legs. Hands. Especially hands. He could be hypnotized for an hour just watching an embroiderer, woodworker, or typist at work. _Two_ hours if the object of his attention was showing enough ankle to be interesting but not so much there was no mystery left.

Alastor had a tendency to gesture like he was trying to hail a taxi from two blocks away, but if there was blood on his lips Sir Pentious probably wouldn't even notice if Alastor's hands had grown three extra fingers.

So what was the appeal?

It wasn't just that Alastor's mouth was more attractive because it was attached to the person Sir Pentious was dating. He'd been in plenty of relationships before Alastor, and none of them had ever given Sir Pentious a boner just by ordering a sandwich. 

And it wasn't that Alastor's mouth was unique. Sir Pentious was fairly certain that half of Hell was fanged, and probably a good ten percent of the population had dentition every bit as deadly as Alastor's. What was it, then?

He was sure he'd puzzle it out eventually.

Maybe after another couple of dinner dates.

###

"And that's the _problem_ with modern musicals," Alastor lamented. "The industry is completely dominated by half a dozen producers, and you can _always_ tell where they inserted their own lyrics into pre-mortem shows. They have no sense for poetry or meter, their additions always sound _terrible_ —but who's going to prove they changed the lines? Anyone who saw the show when they were alive can _say_ they remembered the lines differently, but the producers are just going to give their same old hogwash about their attention to detail and consulting with as many performers involved in the pre-mortem productions as possible and how the 'amateur fans' are misremembering. They don't even _listen_ to anyone who died before the show was written if they say the lines sound wrong, they'll just give some rubbish about 'wanna-be lyricists projecting their own biases into the show'—the absolute hypocrisy!—and who's going to prove them wrong? Nobody's going to show up in Hell and cut open their stomach to pull out a waterproof bag with a copy of the score to _Little Shop of Horrors_ that they swallowed before they died just so they could win an argument in Hell—"

Sir Pentious hadn't stopped watching Alastor's lips move for the last five minutes.

They'd snuck away from the underground weapons auction when they'd realized Vox was in attendance, mugged the valet, and were now instead wandering around the event's parking garage, looking for Vox's car. They were going to raid it for intel on any of his current plans, then trash it.

So far, this had consisted mostly of wandering around with Vox's wireless key fob—a device Alastor had already deemed "absolutely absurd"—as Sir Pentious occasionally held it up, clicked the "lock" button, listened for his car to chirp, and heading in that direction.

"—and mark my words," Alastor snapped, lips curling enough to expose his gums and _nearly_ enough to turn his smile into a sneer, "if Andrew Lloyd Webber doesn't end up in Hell when he dies, then the next extermination after, I'm going to lasso an angel like a bronco and ride it up to Heaven _just_ to demand he sing the proper lyrics to 'Music of the Night.'"

At one point, Alastor's rant _had_ been about Vox. It had shifted from Vox to one of the TV stations he was in charge of, to a live stage production it had put on of _The Wizard of Oz_ (Alastor thought that switching the broadcast from black and white to color in the middle had been a stupid gimmick, and nothing Sir Pentious tried to tell him about how they'd been trying to emulate the movie it had supposedly been based on changed his mind), and from there he'd been off on the sorry state of Hellish theater and its poor attempts to replicate Broadway hits based on what deceased performers remembered of the shows. And Sir Pentious had been nodding along while Alastor spoke about twice as fast as usual.

"Oh! Speaking of _Phantom_ , that reminds me—" Alastor didn't actually snap his fingers, he just pointed toward the ceiling and _played_ a snapping sound effect, "—you _have_ seen _Phantom of the Opera_ , haven't you? The Webber one, I mean, not one of the picture shows." Sir Pentious barely had time to nod before Alastor steamrolled on: "I thought you might have—you _should_ —the organ parts are _exactly_ your aesthetic, you know. I'd _kill_ to see you play the Overture. Not that I don't enjoy your more... mmmodern tunes, those arrangements you do of current bands and such—but you can tell the difference when a song was _written_ for organ, can't you? And if _anybody_ has the theatricality to pull it off, it's you. Why, I bet it would get you _dozens_ of views on Your Tube—"

A beep, and Alastor fell silent. Each time the car beeped, he'd paused speaking for just a moment, ears swiveling toward the sound, and then adjusted his course as they honed in on the car. Honestly, if it wasn't for his keen hearing, they probably would be going around in circles by now—not least of which because Sir Pentious kept half-forgetting what they were doing and staring at Alastor's face instead, carried along by his torrent of words.

"I've been on the lookout for more good organ pieces for you. They're just not composing them anymore, aside from a couple of composers who haven't had a hit in three hundred years—and it's all so subdued compared to what you go for these days. The only new stuff is for Hammond organ, _nothing_ good to highlight a _pipe organ_ soloist..." Alastor tilted his head with a click like a knob turning as a radio station changed. "You know, I was expecting you to have _something_ more to contribute before now! Why so quiet?"

Sir Pentious started, shaken out of his reverie by Alastor's suddenly sharp gaze. "Uh—what?"

"You're typically so eloquent, what's the matter?" Alastor asked. "You don't mind my dragging away from the auction to spite ol' boxhead, do you?"

"Oh! No, no, of course not," Sir Pentious said quickly. "I can't stand him either. No, I just—I was enjoying listening to you speak."

Alastor studied his face a moment. Then his smile stretched wider, his eyes squinting a bit in delight. "Really? Just me talking."

Alastor's beaming smile sent a shiver down Sir Pentious's back. His genuine smiles really _were_ so lovely. "Really," Sir Pentious said, reaching over to briefly place a hand on Alastor's forearm. "You do have _quite_ a speaking voice, you know."

"I know," Alastor said brightly. "But it's been a while since I've had an audience that appreciates it."

Sometimes Sir Pentious wondered why Alastor hadn't tried to get back into radio in Hell. Had he been turned away after his terrifying self-introduction—nobody wanted to work with him? Sir Pentious couldn't imagine any station wouldn't have caved if he'd pushed. Maybe he'd decided that as a one-man walking broadcasting tower, he hadn't _needed_ a radio station's support. After all, he didn't need some vast media corporation propping him up and funneling listeners toward his broadcast, as famous as he was.

Maybe he'd only learned too late that "famous" and "popular" weren't quite the same thing. Sometimes Sir Pentious got the impression that what Alastor _really_ wanted was popularity. Heaven only knew why. "Alastor, you _know_ I'm always happy to listen to what's on your mind."

Alastor's smile stretched a bit wider. "Well! I think I knew that, but it's not quite the same as hearing it, is it? Thank you." He swung an arm around to link his elbow with Sir Pentious's, and straightened his head back up with that same click of a radio switching stations. "Anyway, where was I..."

Alastor's chatter drifted from organs to other keyboard instruments—he'd heard some pianist singers lately that he actually enjoyed, ones that had been born _after_ he'd died, even. (His attempts to modernize his tastes were crawling along, and Sir Pentious got the sense he was only making the attempt at all in an effort to catch up with and appreciate what Sir Pentious was listening to.)

Sir Pentious had watched a play in the early eighties when he'd been trying to develop a taste for absurdism—a dramatic monologue, under fifteen minutes, consisting of a completely dark stage with a spotlight on a pair of floating lips frantically babbling out a character's disjoined life story as though her life and sanity was escaping out through her mouth, as though she only had until someone interrupted her to explain who she was to the world when she herself wasn't sure. Sir Pentious hadn't thought much of the show. But—but—that image, a set of lips in the air, the only visible point in a completely black room, the sole representation of a soul, babbling wildly—sometimes when Alastor really got going, Sir Pentious was reminded of that play.

The play had been written pre-mortem. (Sir Pentious wondered if some Hellish theater producer had changed any lines.) If it hadn't been, Sir Pentious would have wondered if the staging was a poor attempt to replicate the hypnotic experience of watching the Radio Demon speak. It didn't even come close.

They found Vox's car—it was a gaudy neon blue thing that probably wasn't even on the market yet, with a chrome decal that smugly boasted the car was an electric vehicle and a vanity license plate reading "VXVXVX".

Sir Pentious unlocked the car with the key fob.

Alastor smashed in the driver's window with the butt of his cane.

Sir Pentious flinched. "I already unlocked—"

Alastor smashed in the windshield and gave Sir Pentious a sweet, innocent look.

"Oh."

Alastor opened the door and crawled in, hands and knees awkwardly perched on the front seats and straddling the center console, leaving Sir Pentious outside watching his butt. "Bucket seats," he said disapprovingly. He leaned between the seats—"Ooh, it's a coo- _pay_ —" and started rummaging around on the floor for anything interesting.

"Scoot over." Sir Pentious swatted Alastor's rear, and was rewarded with the sound of a startled car honking sound effect and the sight of Alastor's coat fluttering as his tail flicked under the fabric. "Let me get in there too."

Alastor rolled over, sitting in the passenger seat with his feet in the driver's seat and footwell. "Come on," he said, slapping the seat space between his legs. "You search the back, I'll search the front."

Sir Pentious scooted onto the seat gingerly, squeezing his lower eyes shut tight. His scales were thick on his tail, but there was more shattered glass on the front seat than he liked. He coiled as much of himself as he could fit on the edge of the seat and footwell, twisted his way into the backseat, and slipped his hands into the pockets on the backs of the front seats to rummage around for anything interesting. "Ugh. His car seats are _pleather_."

Alastor stuck out his tongue. "Absolutely barbaric."

Although Sir Pentious's vision was blurrier in his tail eyes, they could still see well enough to focus on Alastor's face, watching the shape of his mouth change as he spoke. He focused on watching Alastor rather than on his view of the back seat, pulling out several of CD cases, a handful of cords, and a couple of folders from one seat pocket without examining them and stacking them together in the middle of the back bench.

"Anyway." Alastor popped open Vox's glove compartment, fished out a multi-tool knife, flipped open the longest blade, and casually sliced open the passenger seat upholstery. "I think I've just about given up on watching any new pre-mortem musicals until the idiot producers bankrolling them have been usurped. I'll stick to Hellish works in the meantime. Truth be told, in the past I've considered getting into the musical business myself, if only to run _them_ out of it, but..." A cash register sound played. "Sure, I get what I want pretty well just based on the power of my reputation—but try getting a decent show out of a hundred-odd performers who aren't getting paid."

Sir Pentious finished feeling around on the floors for anything besides trash, scooped up his haul, and sat up. "Why don't you just go terrify the producers into directing the shows the way you want, hm?"

Alastor's gaze shifted from a flash drive he'd just plucked out of the glove compartment to Sir Pentious's face. "Ha! So we're back to _Phantom._ And request twenty thousand bucks a month and a private box while I'm at it?" Alastor held a hand over half his face. "Think I'm ugly enough for the part?" He smirked, his fangs glinting eerily bright in the fluorescent garage lights.

Sir Pentious seized Alastor by the lapels, lunged across the center console, and pulled him into a kiss. Papers and tiny electronic baubles went flying. Alastor's limbs flailed like a scarecrow being shaken before he managed to recover from his surprise, embrace Sir Pentious, and kiss back.

It never took much to coax Alastor to start biting. If anything, trying to _stop_ him was usually the bigger challenge—but right now there was nothing Sir Pentious wanted more than to feel the tips of Alastor's teeth cutting into him. All he had to do was brush his own fangs teasingly over Alastor's upper lip and Alastor eagerly latched on to Sir Pentious's bottom one, letting out a staticky sigh that sounded like the rush of a wave retreating from a beach. Sir Pentious curled his fingers tightly in Alastor's hair to hold his head in place and let his mind replay memories of watching him strip flesh from bones.

Without pulling back from Sir Pentious's lips, Alastor mumbled, "Is this your way of telling me to shut up?"

It was his way of saying he couldn't think of any better job for Alastor than a metaphorical ghost haunting an opera house and inconveniencing anyone who annoyed it, a voice heard singing without any evidence of a body, like a song drifting from a radio's speaker. Except the phantom didn't have Alastor's fantastic fangs.

Instead of wasting time explaining all that, he drew back long enough to hiss, " _Never_ ," and dove back in.

###

Sir Pentious used to call the Radio Demon "Gigglemug" before he'd learned his real name. (Sometimes still did, when Alastor was getting a little too cheeky.) It was a word he'd learned in life: it meant someone who couldn't stop smiling. The nickname felt like a natural fit for Alastor—in some ways, it was more fitting than his actual name.

Sir Pentious had figured out what it was that made Alastor's vicious fangs seem so different from everyone else's. 

Everyone else wore their teeth like Halloween costumes.

Like cheap disposable plastic prosthetic teeth. Something someone else stuck in their faces that didn't truly belong there. The way people spoke, the way they held their lips, the way they ate—even Hell's long-term residents gave off a faint air of being ill at ease with the knives in their mouths, having learned only how to coexist with the intrusions without biting themselves.

Alastor gave off the impression that his mouth had come first, fully formed and perfect—teeth, smile, voice—and the rest of him had been sculpted around his mouth. It was the main attraction, the focal point of the whole painting. It was his center. It was the core of his identity.

Like the Cheshire cat, Sir Pentious thought that if the rest of Alastor faded away, leaving behind nothing but his mouth, he would still effortlessly recognize him by his disembodied smile. Even if the rest of the Radio Demon was missing, he would still be wholly present as long as his smile was there.

###

As Sir Pentious headed down a park path lined with gnarled trees, headed for the helicopter pickup spot to take him back to one of his airships, he heard a scuffling sound and a strangled noise, and turned around to look farther back the path.

Some twenty feet behind him was a fedora-wearing thug who an hour earlier had not-so-subtly warned Sir Pentious to stop edging into Valentino's turf, and hadn't looked pleased when Sir Pentious had sneeringly informed him not to worry, he had no interest in disturbing Valentino's filthy little photography boutiques. The thug was now a foot above the ground, kicking wildly in the air, flailing against the grip of several shadows twisted around his arms and mouth. Past him, peering out of the deep evening shadows where the trees thickened, were the Radio Demon's glowing red eyes.

Sir Pentious wasn't quite sure what it was.

Whether it was the sight of Alastor ripping open the thug's collar and sinking his teeth into his throat, like a vampire but ten times as vicious, the deadly lengths of his teeth vanishing deep in the flesh, only to reappear a moment later as he tore through skin and muscle and esophagus with one sharp jerk of his head, blood running in rivulets down his chin, his bowtie moving ever so slightly against his throat as he swallowed the raw meat.

Or if it was the incongruously innocent smile Alastor favored Sir Pentious with, his face practically glowing as he met Sir Pentious's gaze, eyelashes fluttering and brows raised and head canted—so transformed it was almost as if the very bone structure of his face shifted to accommodate his smile—both in adoration from seeing Sir Pentious and in simple sweet pleasure from knowing he'd just saved his skin.

Or if it was some combination of the gore and the sweetness: the juxtaposition of killer fangs and charming grin, the way the branch-filtered evening sunlight shining on the fresh blood highlighted the curves of his cheeks.

But whatever it was, as Alastor stepped over the unconscious thug and walked closer, Sir Pentious didn't even give him a chance to finish speaking—"What brings a handsome snake like you to a shady part of the park like th—" before Sir Pentious seized Alastor's face, coiled twice around his legs, and kissed him so deeply he could wrap his forked tongue twice around Alastor's. His mouth still tasted like iron and raw meat.

Once Sir Pentious let go, Alastor stumbled back a step, the blood around his mouth smeared and his eyes wide in surprise. " _My_." He laughed shakily. "If you're going to thank me like that every time I take out somebody stalking you, I'm going to start hiring hitmen."

"Only if you stop them like _that._ " Sir Pentious pulled him in for another quick kiss, then hungrily growled, "Come on." He grabbed Alastor's hand and tugged him toward the trees. "There's public restrooms somewhere around here. You don't have any plans for the next half hour, do you?"

For a moment, Alastor was stunned silent except for a solitary sound effect like a bubble popping. Then he said, "I don't anymore!"

" _Good_." He idly wondered if Alastor's prior plans had been with that hotel. Sir Pentious hoped he hadn't just inconvenienced Princess Charlotte somehow... but if he had, he didn't really care.

Alastor cheerily played a few measures of some song Sir Pentious didn't recognize, but would bet anything was some New Orleanian march; and then he said, "Maybe I really _should_ consider those hitmen. What do you think?"

Sir Pentious was pretty sure that what Alastor was really asking for was an explanation for what in the world had come over him. He glanced back at Alastor, fuzzily watching his path with his tail eyes as he focused his true eyes on Alastor's face. "Have I ever mentioned that I'm _absolutely obsessed_ with your mouth?"

Alastor tilted his head with the muffled fluttering sound of unknown voices as he passed through several radio stations. "No, I don't think you have! I would have remembered. I was beginning to figure it out, though." He chuckled; Sir Pentious was sure he saw the tip of Alastor's tongue running along the tips of his teeth. "Have I ever mentioned that _I'm_ obsessed with my mouth?"

Sir Pentious flashed a vicious smile at him. " _Are_ you?"

"Well, sure!" Alastor drew a circle in the air in front of his lower face. "Look at me, I'm a loudspeaker with teeth." His invisible audience laughed. "Everything else is just an elaborate automaton to carry the loudspeaker around. The _real_ show is right here."

If pressed, that was probably how Sir Pentious would have said he'd begun to see Alastor. Although he would have been hesitant about saying so—after all, he hardly wanted Alastor to think he fetishized his mouth and the things he did with it to the exclusion of appreciating any of his other features. Hearing that Alastor saw _himself_ the same way was both a relief and a validation: didn't it mean that Sir Pentious had hit on something rooted in the truth when he'd started looking at Alastor that way?

They emerged from the trees into a picnic area with barbecue grills, burned grass, and a squat cinderblock building with two doors for restrooms. About time—Sir Pentious's vent was threatening to open just from _thinking_ about getting Alastor's mouth back on him, and accidentally popping a boner in public was even more embarrassing when one's typical fashion sense didn't include pants.

They ducked into the men's restroom. Alastor casually kicked open the first stall, ejected a screaming man with his pants still around his ankles, tossed a porn mag out of the stall after him, and wedged his cane behind the main door handle to keep anyone else from getting in.

Sir Pentious leaned against one of the sinks as he watched Alastor secure the door. "So, what do you think? One of the stalls, or...?" He dubiously eyed the stains on the floor visible under the stall doors in front of the toilets. He hadn't thought this plan through beyond relocating them to the nearest structure with walls.

"I wouldn't use the stalls," Alastor said. "I glanced in the second one, there's a snake and a rat wrestling in the bowl."

Sir Pentious stuck out his tongue.

"The snake was winning," Alastor offered encouragingly.

"Please. Stop talking about how filthy the restroom is before my cloaca glues itself shut."

Alastor laughed. "All right, all right. Let me try to warm the mood back up before it gets completely ice cold, shall I?" He sauntered up to Sir Pentious and leaned against him, feet straddling his tail and hands on the sink on either side of him. "So. I'm given to understand you're after _this?_ " Alastor stuck out the tip of his tongue teasingly.

Sir Pentious latched onto it like a worm seizing the bait on a hook.

They were tangled together in seconds, Sir Pentious with one hand tilting Alastor's head back and the other under his coat to squeeze his ass, Alastor with a hand pressed to the small of Sir Pentious's back and one leg hooked around his tail.

Alastor's every gasp, every sigh, every groan was accompanied by bursts of static, hints of songs, crackles of electricity. Sir Pentious could feel thrums and clicks in Alastor's ribs when his voice switched between stations. _A loudspeaker with teeth_ —Sir Pentious was almost willing to believe that the description was literal, that if he cut Alastor open he'd find a speaker in his throat and a pair of radio receivers under his ribcage. Maybe if he got his tongue far enough down Alastor's throat he'd find the speaker grill.

Most people, upon finding a forked tongue attempting to slither past their uvula, would gag. Alastor, on the other hand, got harder. Sir Pentious could feel his bulge through his pants, pressed against Sir Pentious's tail at a point just below where he'd once had his upper thighs. Oh, Alastor really _was_ just as fixated on his mouth as Sir Pentious was. Sir Pentious could feel his own cocks sliding out, pressing into Alastor just below his waistband.

Sir Pentious let go of Alastor's head so he could grab his ass with both hands; but before he had a chance to grind against him, Alastor pulled away from his mouth with a gasp and shifted to kissing/nibbling his neck instead. "This is what you want, right?" He whispered the question against Sir Pentious's skin, lips brushing his scales with each word, drifting down Sir Pentious's neck toward his collar with each syllable. "My mouth on you? Do you want to see what I can _really_ do with it?" His voice was shaking with eagerness, feedback whining around around the harder consonants. He punctuated the question with his tongue, licking all the way up the length of Sir Pentious's throat back to his jawline.

This certainly wasn't going to be anywhere close to the first time either of them had given the other oral. Alastor was more eager to lick than to suck (probably hard to suck and smile at the same time), but he was _zealous_ with the licking, which more than made up the difference—and he was unusually eager to swallow, which was a nice bonus.

But something in his voice suggested he was offering something a little _different_ this time.

Different or not, though, nothing in the world sounded half as appealing at that moment as connecting Alastor's face to Sir Pentious's genitals. Sir Pentious's tail almost gave out at the offer; he had to let go of Alastor with one hand to hold himself up on the sink. "Oh, _yesss—_ "

Alastor dropped to his knees so fast it took that Sir Pentious—still staring at the empty spot where Alastor had been standing, with his throat cold where it had been licked—took a moment to figure out where Alastor had gone; and then he focused his tail eyes all toward Alastor's blurry red form, turned toward his face. Alastor leaned close enough to one of them that, even as bad as his lower eyes' vision was, he could differentiate between Alastor's individual teeth.

"Have I ever mentioned," Alastor said, "that I'm absolutely _obsessed_ with your eyes?"

Before Sir Pentious could reply, Alastor's lips were pressed to the corner of his vent. Alastor teased at his half-extended cocks, kissing and licking around the point where they extended. "I'm not usually into being watched. _Listened to_ , sure, of course—but not _watched_." Every time he paused between phrases, he teased at Sir Pentious's equipment, with his lips, the tip of his tongue, the edge of his teeth. "There's a reason I'm not called the Picture Show Demon. I've always been told I have a face for radio." While he paused his rambling to give his invisible audience time to laugh, he ran his tongue up the length of one of Sir Pentious's cocks. "You know how the phrase goes—radio hosts should be heard and not seen." Another laugh from the audience; and Alastor ran down the length of the other cock, half kissing it, half dragging his teeth along it like a cat marking its scent on a friend.

It wasn't rare for Alastor to happily carry on a conversation throughout sex—oftentimes about something that had nothing to do with the sex—but it was dawning on Sir Pentious that, this time, Alastor wasn't attempting to talk with him: he was fulfilling his promise to show what he could really do with his mouth. He was switching so quickly between lavishing attention on Sir Pentious's cocks and chattering that it was almost like he had two mouths. As tempted as Sir Pentious was to grab Alastor by his horns and slam one of his cocks down his throat, he forced both his hands to grip the sink so he could just watch the show.

"But _you_ , Sir—oh, I _do_ like it when you look at me." Alastor may well have been actually speaking to Sir Pentious's cocks; now that they were both fully erect, he'd stopped teasing them with his mouth to pull back and eye them greedily. "You know how I _like_ to be looked at. As long as it's you who's doing it, of course. If anyone _else_ looked at me the way you do, I'd probably carve their eyes out. It'd serve them right. But _you_..." He licked his lips hungrily and then let his let his tongue loll out of his open mouth, drool dripping from the tip of his tongue and fangs. Sir Pentious was keenly reminded of how quickly he'd seen Alastor strip a turkey leg down to naked white bone, how effortlessly he'd seen Alastor rip out a man's entire throat. His cocks attempted to twitch up a little higher.

Alastor's gaze flipped back and forth between Sir Pentious's cocks like a metronome. "Eenie, meenie, miney... oh, what the hell." He pressed both of Sir Pentious's cocks together, opened his mouth as wide as he could, and shoved them both in.

Sir Pentious bit his lower lip in an attempt not to shout; it came out as a whining moan instead. Disjointed mutters of ambient voices filled the air as Alastor tilted his head and adjusted his neck in an attempt to suck Sir Pentious's cocks deeper into his throat; Sir Pentious could feel the ambient noise vibrating in the back of Alastor's and along his tight throat.

He hissed out a swear. Alastor's throat was almost painfully tight around his cocks; he didn't want to think about how painful trying to _contain_ them must be. And didn't Alastor have a gag reflex? Did he just not have a gag reflex at all. Did he not _breath_.

If Alastor felt the strain, his face wasn't showing it. Even as widely stretched open as his mouth was, the corners of his mouth were still twisted up in a ravenous smile. His eyes looked less like eyes and more like the dials of a radio.

What kind of absurdly over-the-top magic was Alastor trying to pull out just to give a blow job? "Alastor," Sir Pentious panted, "don't be crazy, you don't have to—"

Alastor silenced Sir Pentious by wrapping an arm around his hips and pulling himself another couple inches closer. Sir Pentious yelped and swore more loudly, the length of his tail whipping around Alastor's legs to hold himself in place. He could feel Alastor's fangs dragging dangerously across the skin of his cocks. Had Alastor _really_ gotten that close to the bases—?

Alastor swallowed down another inch, then played a triumphant bugle jingle and a round of riotous applause. Had he actually—?! Of course he had, Sir Pentious could see it for himself. He could _feel_ it for himself: Alastor's stretched-wide lips pressed to the stretched-wide lips of Sir Pentious's vent, his teeth prickling at his cocks just beyond the point where they split, his drool rolling down Sir Pentious's tail.

Sir Pentious nearly came on the spot.

Alastor slid Sir Pentious's cocks out of his throat far faster than he'd slid them in, his tongue sliding between them the whole length of the way, and wheezed out a staticky cough once his mouth was free. Voice hoarse, massaging his throat, he rasped out, "Good golly."

Sir Pentious's grip on the sink almost slipped. "Are you serious?! If you weren't already dead, that could have killed you!" He wasn't sure if he was horrified or awed. (No—definitely awed.) "And the best thing you can think of to say is 'good golly'?!"

Alastor stared up at Sir Pentious, panting to catch his breath, his grinning mouth hanging open, drool and precum dripping down his chin, eyes completely blank as he attempted to process Sir Pentious's protests. After a moment, he said, "What about 'please Sir, I want some more'?"

Sir Pentious's jaw dropped. "What—"

He only got a glimpse of the fiendish look crossing Alastor's face before he slid one of Sir Pentious's dicks down his throat again. Sir Pentious constricted Alastor's legs tighter, his own fangs digging harder into his bottom lip. Alastor sucked it down to the base and then all the way out again, kissing the tip before he switched to the other.

Sir Pentious only very dimly registered that Alastor's hands were teasing around the bases of his cocks before he sucked them down. He was using his hands only to keep Sir Pentious's hips steady enough to let him work and to position his cocks at just the right angle to let him lavish attention on them. Sir Pentious was so focused on the lips, the tongue, the teeth, the hot wet throat, he hadn't even noticed Alastor's hands were involved at all.

"I can tell when every one of your eyes are focused on me." Alastor's voice was cracklier than usual; from arousal, or had he damaged the speaker in his throat? "I can tell when you're enjoying my show. Whenever I'm singing, whenever I'm eating..." He kissed his way up one of Sir Pentious's cocks, humming a tune Sir Pentious didn't recognize. "Did you know I wanted to go into theater before the radio got big? You're just like having all those eyes watching me..." And down the other one, humming again, every few kisses stopping to murmur-sing a few words: " _Your eyes that, hm hmm... sweet nights..._ "

Sir Pentious's tight hold on Alastor's legs was loosening as he felt his orgasm coming. He was less constrictor and more overcooked noodle. "I-I'm about to..."

"It's my irresistible crooning, isn't it?" Alastor noticed Sir Pentious's balance giving out and shifted his hands to try to hold him upright. "Know the song? I heard it at a jazz club it in the fifties. _Those hot and fiery red eyes... inferno where my love lies..._ " He switched back from singing to humming, once again sliding one of Sir Pentious's cocks deep into his mouth.

This time Sir Pentious rolled his hips to push it in the rest of the way. Alastor's eyes flew wide open, and then he eagerly twisted his tongue around the cock. Sir Pentious could feel Alastor still humming deep in his throat—

His tail spasmodically tightened around Alastor again as his orgasm crashed over him. Alastor flinched as Sir Pentious's free cock let out a first spurt of cum, seized it over the tip, and hastily shoved it in his mouth with the other. Sir Pentious let his head tip back and his upper eyes slide shut, blurily watching from up close as Alastor's throat worked to swallow his cum.

And then his tail gave out completely. He slid down into a pile of coils, half wrapped around Alastor, dragging Alastor down to sit with him.

Alastor licked his lips clean and beamed at Sir Pentious. "Well!" He cleared his throat. "Any comments from the audience?"

Woozily, Sir Pentious said, "Wow."

Alastor laughed. "Who needs Broadway? The only critic I want is right here." He leaned in to peck Sir Pentious's lips. 

Sir Pentious flicked out his tongue to taste Alastor's lips before he could pull back. Beneath the taste of semen, Alastor's mouth still tasted faintly like blood. "You're a mess, though." He plucked up a few strands of Alastor's hair, where some of the first spurt of cum that had missed his mouth had landed.

"I came in a mess! What's another bodily fluid or two?"

"Fair point." Sir Pentious tried to shift his own tangled tail out of the way so he could reach Alastor's waistband. "So—would you like me to pay back this _spectacular_ service you've given me before we leave, or would you rather come up to my airship so I can try to match your excellent work properly?"

Alastor laughed self-consciously. "Actually, I think I'd rather you pay me back by letting me borrow your washing machine. I'm—carnally speaking, I'm already quite sated, thank you."

Sir Pentious stared blankly at Alastor, then pulled back his coils to stare at the crotch of Alastor's pants. "When?"

"When I got that two-headed hydra of yours all the way down my throat." Alastor shrugged sheepishly. "Speaking of which—along with letting me borrow the washing machine, if you've got anything for sore throats..."

Sir Pentious huffed. "I'll make you a hot toddy." Although hot toddies were for colds and coughs; he had no idea if they helped with injuries sustained during acts of sexual excess. "That was stupid, by the way."

"It was _worth it_ and I _will_ be doing it again." Alastor disentangled himself from Sir Pentious's coils, got shakily to his feet, and plucked Sir Pentious's hat out of the sink to plop back on his head. "But not for at least a week."

Sir Pentious straightened his hat. He hadn't even noticed when it had fallen off. "Make it a month."

"Aww." Alastor's invisible audience backed up his disappointed groan.

"Why are you complaining, you're not going to be horny again within a week anyway. You have the libido of a..." Sir Pentious trailed off as he pulled himself back upright. "I can't think of anything that only gets horny once a month."

Alastor was bent over the sink, hastily washing the evidence of lovemaking and cannibalistic gore from his hair and face. "Werewolf."

"Werewolf," Sir Pentious agreed. " _And_ you're showering before you leave my ship." They were _both_ showering, after being in here. He checked over his outfit in the mirror next to Alastor's, making sure he hadn't made a mess himself.

"Laundry, drinks, _and_ a shower? Why, it sounds like you're trying to tempt me into stay the night."

"I am now." He smoothed out his slightly rumpled jacket and wiped off a bit of drying fluid dripping down from his vent. He was pretty sure that one wasn't actually _his_ , but Alastor's saliva.

Alastor beamed at Sir Pentious. With his face cleaned off, the leftover blood still staining his teeth was even more obvious. "In that case, I'd be delighted."

Alastor offered an elbow to Sir Pentious and dislodged his cane from the door handle, and out they went into the dark evening.

**Author's Note:**

> Interesting footnotes:
> 
> • "What would something worth $50 in 1930 be worth today—well over $500, wouldn't it?" In fact, $50 in 1930 could buy as much as about $770 today.  
> • "And they serve cotton candy there?" One time for my birthday I got to eat at a super fancy steakhouse and they did serve everyone a plate of cotton candy after dinner. I didn't see anyone use forks.  
> • "when everyone was already dead you never had a good public execution" Public executions were still going on when Sir Pent was alive in both Great Britain and the U.S.  
> • "a copy of the score to _Little Shop of Horrors_ " It was mentioned in a stream ([quoted here](https://dolliesmoon.tumblr.com/post/189832234010)) that Alastor would like _Little Shop_. No mention's made of _Phantom_ but it's hard to be a musical fan and _not_ see POTO eventually, even in Hell.  
> • "had watched a play in the early eighties" the play is "[Not I" (](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Not_I)[video](http://www.ubu.com/film/beckett_not.html)) and watching it kinda feels like dissociating.  
> • "Bucket seats" benches across the entire front row of a car were the standard in early cars, and [bucket seats](https://jalopnik.com/why-front-bench-seats-went-away-1776706852) didn't really start taking over for good until the 80s.  
> • "And request twenty thousand bucks a month and a private box while I'm at it?" along with terrorizing the opera house's managers, the phantom in _Phantom of the Opera_ does indeed get a private box and 20k francs a month as payment for not causing problems on purpose.  
> • "Gigglemug" this is Actual Victorian Slang, I just wanna point that out  
> • "Like the Cheshire cat," Alice In Wonderland was published in 1865 and was an _instant_ smash hit (AND was published around the time I headcanon Sir Pentious's son was born), so yes he COULD have read it before dying!  
> • "some New Orleanian march" for no particular reason I picked [Creole Belles](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ETJKpzWFFM).  
> • I feel obligated to mention, in case anyone got this far without figuring it out, that snakes have two penises ("hemipenes") that are usually hidden inside their bodies in a slit called a cloaca or vent.  
> • "humming a tune Sir Pentious didn't recognize" The song is called "[Green Eyes](https://www.lyrics.com/lyric/3460145/Jimmy+Dorsey+%26+His+Orchestra/Green+Eyes+%28Aquellos+Ojos+Verdes%29)." It definitely does not reference red eyes. He definitely changed the lyrics.  
> • "I'll make you a hot toddy." Hot whiskey, honey, lemon juice, and sometimes spices. I also do not know if it's recommended for blow job injuries. Ask your doctor.  
> • "Werewolf." I want to make it clear that Alastor is speaking bullshit and knows nothing about werewolf libidos.
> 
> Post available on [tumblr](https://ckret2.tumblr.com/post/617430473675800576/a-loudspeaker-with-teeth). Comments/reblogs there are very welcome (as are comments here)!


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